The Checklist
by PynkPlayar
Summary: It read "Things to achieve in life." How dare that bastard of a father challenge him? Before even opening the letter to read the contents, he had already accepted the challenge. Unexpectedly, Ryoma wasn't too sure he could fill the empty checkbox...
1. Chapter 1: The Empty Checkbox

**Disclaimer: **Prince of Tennis characters belong to Takeshi Konomi (durr)  
**Warning:** My spelling/grammar isn't the greatest (even if English is my first language, haha)

**Summary: **"_Things to be achieve in life_." How dare that dirty bastard of a father challenge him? Before even opening the letter to read the contents, he had already accepted the challenge. Unexpectedly, Ryoma wasn't too sure if he could fill the empty checkbox…

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**Chapter 1: The Empty Checkbox**

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_Fan, fan, junk, fan, fan, fan, junk, fan junk, fan, fan, junk…_

After returning from the U.S. Open as the reigning champ, he stood before a refined glass table, frowning irately.

Papers crinkled under his firm grasp, shifting and shuffling under callused hands. His brow wrinkled in frustration. His brain pulsed in annoyance; he was really succumbing under the utter dullness.

It was so simple and yet so excruciating. Easy and yet unbearable.

Echizen Ryoma was sorting out his mail.

Why was he doing this again?

Oh right. Ryoma could not trust any one else to this task. You'd think it would be simple to distinguish junk from junk, but the useless assistants his manager had hired in the past could not figure out what was junk and what was not. They sometimes decided that stupid endorsement jobs such as underwear modeling had some priority in his life.

Seriously, underwear modeling? Couldn't they find something decent to endorse nowadays? Like, hmm…a certain hat-brand or maybe a certain fruit soda company.

It really wasn't that hard to figure him out. He was a simple guy with (somewhat) simple needs.

But no, they liked to make his life a little more difficult. A little more agonizing.

So he left this tedious and menial task for himself. If you want something done right, you need to take matters into your hands. So that's how he was stuck here, shuffling through mounds of paper rather than swinging a racket.

Why did people even use this method as means of communication at all, any how? It was the 21st century. You would think man kind would be past the barbaric paper-wasting service that has been dubbed "snail mail." It was understandable that it was essential for packages and such, but if it was something redundant and dumpy, it could easily be sent via e-mailing.

E-mailing. Another source of headaches.

With a sigh, he raked his tired hand through dark green, feathery locks. He emitted a low, deep grumble, sighed melodramatically, and then resumed sorting.

_Fan, junk, fan, fan, fan, fa—wait, what's this? Fa…mily?_

Ryoma stared at the envelope incredulously. He had received so little communication from this address he was so familiar with. What ever could be the business to be discussed? It was so…out of the ordinary. He thought he had made his intent very clear when he left. He thought he had finally been able to cut his ties. He thought he had finally been able to become independent. He thought he could live his own life in solitude (or as much solitude as you get when you're a tennis professional).

He thought he had been able to become his own man.

Guess not.

He peered closer at the scribble written on the backside in ball point pen: _Seshounen_.

_You've gotta be kidding me._

Heaving another heavy sigh, Ryoma tore the envelope open across the top. Hesitantly, he reached inside with lengthy fingers and pulled out its contents, revealing a thin sheet of plain white paper, crisply folded in half. Words were scrawled on the back in messy letters:

_Things to be achieved in life._

Amber eyes continued to scan the paper.

_I achieved everything on this list by the time I was 22. Don't let your old man beat you out._

Those last lines lead him to humph in amusement and disgust. Yeah right, what a bastard of a father. He could and would beat him out in anything, any time.

Before even opening the paper to read the contents, he already accepted the challenge.

You'd think it'd be impossible to get even cockier than he was at the age of 12, right? Well, that assumption was incorrect. His head was inflated from winning four junior titles. Winning Nationals for Seigaku and his head got a bit bigger.

He went pro at 14 years old. That did contribute to his self-esteem a bit more.

Then factor in that he won every tournament he participated since then.

Then add that he consecutively won the U.S. Open for the last 5 years.

Multiply it by the fact that he won the last Wimbledon games.

So you could imagine that Ryoma's self was pretty well intact. Actually, his ego inflated so much to the extent that it put Atobe Keigo's level of self-importance to shame (well, at least when he was in middle school. His ego, as well, enlarged when he was introduced into the underwear modeling industry that Ryoma despised so much. But that's another story).

Now, it was easy to understand why Ryoma confidently accepted a challenge he didn't even know the details of with haste. He would soon regret it…

He slowly unfolded the paper and everything began to reveal itself.

Attached to the interior of the paper, with a sliver of transparent tape, was a single photograph, grayed and worn with age. Photographed were a man and a woman, standing side by side under an arbor of flowers. The scruffy man was smirking in a black suit while the charming woman's smile radiated; she was simply glowing in a white gown with a veil upon her head…

…Wait, it couldn't be.

Under it read, _Echizen Nanjirou and Takeuchi Rinko's wedding, 19XX_

No way… his bastard of a father was not implying…was he?

Oh god, he was.

Under the photo, there was only one task written with a single blank box beside it, awaiting a check mark to fill it. Right then and there, Ryoma wasn't too sure if he could fill it…

"_Find the woman to spend your life with_."

Echizen Ryoma, age 21, was screwed the moment he opened the envelope.

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**To be continued.**

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**A/N:**My version of a "betting" fanfic. This is a commonly-used concept/theme to motivate our stingy Japanese American tennis star into finding love.

I had totally forgot to upload this. It's been rotting in my little "TeniPuri Fanfiction" folder. Was intended to be a one-shot, but since I made a cliffhanger, I thought "Hey, why not make it a bit longer?"

Reviews are always appreciated! They make me happy ('cuz you care so much about my happiness xD). Oh, and they tell me "People want to see more" and get me motivated. :3

Oh and if you see mistakes or get confused, please tell me!

EDIT: Ahh, I just touched up on it just barely for mistakes and just a little more fluidity. Also… UGH, I'm so OCD about how to format these fanfics! I keep changing my style, but nothing seems to really stick…

Started 05-01-2009. Finished and Uploaded 06-06-2009. Edited 06-24-2009.


	2. Chapter 2: Choose Your Poison

**Disclaimer: **Prince of Tennis characters belong to Takeshi Konomi  
**Warning:** Authoress is suffering from ADD, lyme disease, and the early morning hours so the following may be fail. +1 year gap in rewriting.

**Previously:**  
_"Find the woman to spend your life with."  
Echizen Ryoma, age 21, was screwed the moment he opened the envelope._

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**Chapter 2: Choose Your Poison  
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He could always pretend he never saw this, he contemplated.

Yes, he could just act as if he had no knowledge of this accursed letter. Society is imperfect, right? The letter could have easily gotten lost at all the postal stops and ended up at some random doorstep for all he cared.

His father wouldn't know anything about it and it would be all good. Problem solved.

Sigh.

Who was he kidding. Problem not solved.

This letter. This challenge. He'd know about it. And he knew about it. He knew about it _right now_. And if he knew, his pride would get in the way. His self-worth.

He never turned down a challenge (well, unless it was from a certain unibrowed fellow or a certain leopard print tank-top clad guy) and he never backed out of a challenge, no less. It just didn't work that way. Rejecting or retreat from a challenge, it made him ill with restlessness and anxiety. In the end, he would always turn around, smirk, and chant (almost as if mechanically tuned to do so): "Mada mada dane."

Why? Because he's Echizen Ryoma, that's why. That's just the way he did things. And he wasn't going to change his life style for anyone.

He glanced back at the paper. Maybe he didn't have a choice this time.

Maybe he did have a choice. He could shred the evidence and he would be home free.

But then there would be guilt. Okay, there wouldn't be guilt. More than anything, there would be a big bruise of ego-hurt.

He was a man. A Japanese, born-American man with great honor and valor… right?

"Ugh…"

Ryoma slumped deep into his white leather recliner. He then scooted toward the edge; he closed his eyes and began rubbing his throbbing temples, elbows balanced atop his knees.

What was he doing? Wasting him time away, fretting over something so trivial? Why was this even bothering him so much in the first place? It shouldn't even pose that much of a threat to him… it was just some noncommittal challenge. No sweat.

Yeah… no sweat! He could go a try to get the girl. And hey, if he didn't, who cares right? Not him…right?

Feet slammed hard upon the floor, Ryoma stood in his triumph and glory of intellectual resolve.

He would try to find a woman. If he did not succeed, then he'll just tell his father that the letter encountered an "accident." Or, he could just continue ignoring his father and all familial contact like he had for the last 4 years.

It was brilliant, if he didn't say so himself.

He smirked to himself, humming a nondescript tune, and headed back over to resume mail sorting.

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Flurries of envelopes, torn stamps, and shredded debris fluttered onto the mahogany wood below.

He. Was. An. Idiot.

He would just "try to find a woman?" Who was he kidding? He had no women in his life. He lived a strict existence that was very male dominant and he did not mind it being that way.

The presence of women always seemed to anguish him anyhow. Tears and squeals, giggling and gossiping… was it worth it? He hardly tolerated sharing oxygen with one of the opposite sex, let alone be bonded to one in holy matrimony.

This wasn't going to work. Where was he going to find a female anyways? Sure, he had tons of fangirls, but he couldn't just go "Eenie, meenie –I chose you, Pikachu!" and then let the rabid fangirl put a wedding band 'round his finger. But the result could only be man rape. The catastrophe that it could cause. The catastrophe that it _would_ cause. Like dominos, there would be an inevitable chain of events; the unsystematically-chosen fangirl would also, in turn, be raped by other fangirls, spitting with white hot jealousy.

Not that he entirely minded a bunch of girls rolling around fighting for him. (He was a straight male, after all.)

But being involved in such disputes was troublesome and tiring. Like he needed the extra work.

His ideal situation would be that he could just wed and marry, and then afterwards separate while keeping rings on their fingers. Sure, it was no picture-perfect marriage, but hey, it would free him from a number of problems –lower taxes, lower fangirl population, higher income, estate benefits, lower fangirl population…

It's not like he found relationships completely idiotic and worthless. No, he had dated before and whatnot, in order to dip his foot into the water, test it out. That brief dating era allowed others to get over the mystery of his sexuality, but that's another thing.

Thing was, he hadn't been serious about it. He had been…for lack of a better word, "practicing." Practicing for what and when, he didn't know and can't say, but he had.

He uttered another deep sigh.

He probably should have put in more practice.

The thing about relationships was there was another party. A partner, where you had to harmonize with to some degree, like doubles tennis. The selection, the candidate, the chosen significant other: the identity, character, and personality held extreme importance.

Ryoma scrambled over to his desk and rummaged through unidentified papers until finding a blank pad of paper. He grabbed a dusty pen from a drawer and sunk into the familiar leather seat.

He was going to play this strategically. Since he did not want to go through the hassle of getting to know someone and go through the whole process of building familiarity, he figured he should just target a female friend. Okay, so he didn't really have any female friends. All he needed was a female of adequate familiarity.

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Ryoma nibbled at the cap of his pen.

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Ryoma wheezed a dry cough.

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Ryoma pet a kitty.

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When was the last time he had any personal interaction with the opposite gender? Sure, he had met females over the course of the last few years, but none whom he had any degree of intimacy with. Then there was the issue of obtaining contact information and, even more problematic, remembering names.

When had his life last been "normal?" Now, reflecting over it, his life was completely consumed by the pro tennis circuit. Whatever free time he had, it was dedicated to his sole passion, his hobby, his career. Social life tended to be all connected into tennis as well.

So when did this start? Tennis became a profession around 14 and before, he was in some exclusive all boys' private school in California.

And how could he forget –his single year's stay in Japan. It was one of the most colorful and extensive years of his life, a year that would be treasured for every bead of sweat and tear shed.

Ryoma never realized how void his life was of companionship.

"Mreoooooooow."

Ah, inattentive pats do nothing to tame this fluffy beast.

You know what? Worse comes to worse, he would live a placid life with his cat. Other persons in this celebrity's life? Completely, entirely, utterly discretionary.

And everything Echizen Ryoma does is at _his_ discretion. Always.

"MEOW."

Well, maybe not all things.

An impassive groan curled into the air. Time to play butler to the fickle feline, as per usual.

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A canister of cat food later, and we're back.

Back to a blank notepad and a runny ballpoint pen.

But never fear: the writing implements are no longer necessary.

Because Echizen Ryoma, _the _Samurai Junior, has an idea. And not to be egotistical or anything (as if!)…

…But if you asked him, he'd say it was quite brilliant.

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**To Be Continued.**

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**A/N:** Umm so I had this mostly complete over a year ago, but I just left it. But yeah, if I don't finish this, it'll bother me to heck so here I am. I hope you enjoyed it. Chapter 3 is on the way (really)!

Please review and critique so I know the fruits of my labor have some worthwhile audience. :)

Started 06-24-2009. Finished 04-23-2011. Uploaded 04-23-2011.


	3. Chapter 3: Practice

**Disclaimer: **Prince of Tennis characters belong to Takeshi Konomi  
**Warning: **Brain farts lie ahead. And some embittered, not-pretty language. I can't help it.

**Previously: **_The writing implements are no longer necessary. Because Echizen Ryoma, the Samurai Junior, has an idea. And not to be egotistical or anything, but if you asked him, he'd say it was quite brilliant._

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**Chapter 3: Practice**

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"Osakada Tomoka."

"Wruh?"

"Let me in."

Yeah, I know, you're impressed.

By utilizing the immeasurable resources that are devised for intensive tracking, Echizen Ryoma located former middle school classmate, Osakada Tomoka. In laymen's terms, his actions could be considered "stalking," but that's something else.

"Wruh you want? Who are you?"

"Traditionally, the sequence of those two questions is reversed. Also, it is considered quite improper to answer the door whilst wielding a spoiled toothbrush. Can't say it isn't foul to be greeted by a face smothered in toothpaste. And bed head hair is so out dated."

A deadpan stare met the tennis star.

_Heh._

The door shut_._ Rather, it smashed to a close

"Ah—wait! Osakada! OSAKADA!"

"WRUH YOU WANT, PUNK?"

A slick smirk slid onto his face. "Don't recognize me?"

She spat. "I know who you are."

"Well that's pleasant." _Smirk._ "Hey, nice pajamas. I like bunnies, too."

Wood began to flooded his view as the door threatened to seal again. Had he not caught the door, nearly impelling in Ryoma's nose.

"Well, isn't that rude?"

"Fuck you."

"Lots of people would like to, but that's not why I'm here. Let me in. We wouldn't want to cause a scene, now would we?"

She glowered.

_Smirk_. "So, how have you been?"

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A crude cup of joe sloshed as it was ungraciously presented.

But Ryoma wasn't a total ingrate. He took it, appreciative that anything was offered at all from his soured host.

"What do you want?"

"Straight to the point, aren't we."

"Well _gee,_ I don't know, let's consider we haven't kept in contact for nearly a decade"—_Shit_, thought Ryoma, _I'm old—"_and as I understood it, we weren't particularly friends."

Ryoma nonchalantly took a sip of his coffee, then allowed his eyes to lift and meet her hard gaze.

"My Osakada, I'm insulted."

"Don't give me that. What do you want?"

"People can't decidedly meet another without a motive?"

Deadpan stare.

"Fine then, I'll get to the point. I need a girl."

"So?"

"How come you don't sound surprised?"

"You have a tendency to come off as emotionally erect."

"What does that even mean?"

"I think you know."

"Erm, anyhow…so yeah, I need a girl."

"What does that have to do with me?"

"Well, erm…"

His poker face wasn't maintained without difficulty. He could feel the line of his heartbeat totter and wobble. When he had been thinking it through at home, he was confident he could pull this off effortlessly.

But _imagine_ this: here he was in front this uncouth female. Outwardly collected, yet vexing within. This was _supposed_ to be easy.

46 hours ago, he had received the mail that had shaken his world. 43 hours ago, he customarily fed his cat and spotted—by mere chance, really—a photograph adorned in the hallway. His mother most likely tinkered with his home at her last visit and unsheathed the photo, thinking to make his complex more like a proper home. He would have ordinarily ignored said photo had it not been for his shaken state, but his eyes did befall that photo. A photo of Seishun Gakuen's tennis team, 9 years ago.

His eyes hadn't really fallen unto Osakada Tomoka when looking at the photo. As brutish as it sounds, she was an afterthought. His eyes had firstly moved to the familiar faces of the regulars. His gaze had then swerved to his former coach; he had shuddered violently for a moment, and moved on.

But even before all that, he had momentarily been caught by a certain artificial gaze, burgundy brown in hue. And, though he wouldn't openly admit it, his eyes had scantly danced about the image of too-long braids.

It was too dangerous. Way, _way_ too dangerous. His virgin heart bemused everyone about him. His heart was novel, unscathed, utterly a neophyte in every form of romance. There was no way he could expose himself to such…such _vulnerability_. Such vulnerability could possibly embroil the entirety of his existence.

Albeit, that _does_ sounds a tad dramatic and hyperbolic. But he couldn't do it. So here he was, taking the easy route.

"Umm, hi, did I disconnect? Hello Ryoma, you can't hang up on someone in the middle of a tete-a-tete."

_Well, the "easy" route_, he inwardly snorted.

Ryoma raised his gaze. He had to do it this way: artless, detached, unromantic, advantageous, direct, uncomplicated. It was sure-fire.

"I need a favor."

"Ok."

"Marry me."

Long eyelashes flitted in confusion. "Excuse me?"

"Osakada Tomoka, will you –wait, do you need me to get down on one knee? I'm kind of tired right now and I don't feel like it."

"You're tired? I'M TIRED."

"Well that's just peachy, so it seems we have a mutual agreement on that. Anyways, we can just head down to the—"

"HOLY MUFFIN PANS. Echizen, are you out of your mind?"

"Well that's a bit rude."

Tomoka closed her eyes, as if to somehow remedy her newborn headache or stimulate _something_ to make sense of the last 27 seconds. _Ok breathe, breathe, and face this shit_. "I'm not going to marry you."

"Why not?"

"WHY NOT? Are you a moron?

"If I remember correctly, you were quite fond of me back in the day Osakada."

A hyena laugh ruptured the air. Ryoma winced; her laugh was belittling.

"Fuck, you're serious."

"So what if I am?"

"Dude, I'm married."

"Fuck, you're serious?"

She grimaced. "What. I can get me a man."

"Where's this man?"

"Business trip."

"Ah."

Silence quickly flooded the air.

"Then get rid of him."

Tomoka scoffed in amusement. A corner of her mouth lifted in amusement. "My oh my, Echizen Ryoma wants to be"—her eyes gilt with glee—"the _other man._"

He had completely lost. Now she was just toying with him.

"Ho ho, don't make such an ugly face! It might get stuck like that."

Alice was at the beck and will of the merciless Cheshire cat.

"So what do you need, hon?"

_Hon_. He hated that.

"I need to get married." The words were like grit in his mouth.

He watched with unfiltered scorn as Tomoka played with the thought. "_The_ Echizen Ryoma, _the_ international tennis celebrity, needs to get married? Oh the _woes_ of a young adult male! And he came to _simple me!"_

Her sarcastic inflections were _really_ irritating.

"But what could _possibly_ provoke something like this?"

She was _really_ chucking this up.

"What would cause _the_ Echizen Ryoma to grace _me_ with his presence? Or should I say…why would the _darling_ Echizen be so desperate to be bound to _little ol' me_? Oh _darling_, would you care to enlighten me?"

Eyelashes flitted. Only this time, she didn't look surprised – she just looked disgusting.

Really, he had no conceivable response. This _woman_, this excuse for a woman! It was repulsive how the tables had turned.

"I. need. to get. married." He stifled, dripping with contempt.

A groomed eyebrow rose with incredulity. "Ah, so your impulse was to ask me?"

"Sure." _Whatever will make you shut up and let me leave with an infinitesimal amount of dignity._

Tomoka smirked. Man were this woman's smirks utterly revolting. They never failed to send a cold chill down your spine.

"Okay Mister Echizen Ryoma, I won't push it. But you can't just go about proposing to whatever girl you want. I don't know your reasons for wanting to get married so shortsightedly, but you shouldn't purely act on a bet or to prove a point."

_Ah, shit. Erm, well, about that—_

"If you're going to do this, you ought to go for a girl that you have some _genuine_ attraction to. Don't waste your efforts."

"Oh really," he replied dully.

"Let me just say you ought to get off your high horse – not _every_ girl is in love with you." A fiery red fingernail invaded his view, poised, threatening to pierce straight through his very thoughts. "_Think_ of the girl in your approach. _Then_ you'll get a relationship worth your time." She then leaned back and crossed her arms defiantly. "Learn some courtship."

"Whatever."

"Hmm, you may be a little more groomed and matured, but you're still a child."

_Like you're one to talk_, Ryoma mused.

Tomoka sighed dramatically. "Ah, you're so lucky that I'm so forgiving and compassionate. Such an ideal woman, wouldn't you agree?"

Not waiting for a response, Tomoka escaped on a tangent, becoming considerably absorbed in her own world. As she gabbled on, Ryoma twisted her words about in his own mouth. Genuine attraction? Courtship? It looked like the entirety of his plans were reduced to rubble. He would have to take another approach to this. And apparently, he couldn't do so without some help.

Returning his attention to loquacious female, he really couldn't get over how disgusting her happy expressions were. This woman really taunted at his self-respect.

Sweeping her hair from her face theatrically, Tomoka continued, "See, lucky for you, I'm very established and past juvenility. So I'll look pass this whole incident." She winked knowingly. "Let's consider this _practice_."

A final Cheshire grin adored Tomoka's face. "Good luck with courting your _real_ target. You'll need it."

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The best part of this particular informal reunion was undoubtly the end, at least for the male party. Tomoka guided a less than enthusiastic Ryoma to the doorway, satisfied with how she handled this. Ryoma, however, was quite unsettled.

He really couldn't resist.

"By the way, let me just say _you_ ought to know that it's really difficult to condone someone with any amount of credibility when you're wearing _rabbit-patterned pajamas. _You know, just telling you this for future reference._"_

"Why you…" Her eyes scathed.

He smirked. "Mada mada da—"

"Don't even. Just leave already."

He fluidly turned on his heel, leaving an irate woman in his wake. At least he could leave with a smile on his face.

"What a bitch," he contemplated.

"What an ass," she consented. A groan curled into the air. "It's hardly 6 in the morning!"

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**To be continued.**

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**A/N:** And to think Tomoka is the one to be giving advice, huh? But it didn't turn out so bad. But with every step forward, there's a step backward! Next time, Ryoma looks to the best for counsel on this love affair.

Yes, I really wanted to make Ryoma an arse. Don't worry, it goes somewhere.

Yes, I really wanted to upload this yesterday but I hit a wall. Today I had testing and some family issues so writing was kind of difficult but I HAD TO GET IT DONE or I wouldn't forgive myself. So that explains the pathetic ending of this chapter; I just couldn't eloquently put out what I wanted to say on paper. Hopefully I got across what I wanted. Do I even have the right to write romance when I don't have any faith in it myself? I wonder…

Rate & Review! I'll try to put something up next week, but no promises.

Started 04-23-2011. Finished 04-30-2011. Uploaded 04-30-2011.


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